Palliative Care
by HilsonFTW
Summary: A sequel for the Honeymoon story. Wilson is worried, because after he is gone, who will be able to make House smile?


Wilson had gone back to work after they'd come back from Norway and stayed there for as long as he'd been able to, gradually reducing his hours, training in his successor and managing to reassure his patients with hope of a cure that his prognosis meant absolutely nothing about theirs, and showing the terminals by his own example that it was still possible to fill whichever time they had left with meaning. It was only when even the short walk from his office to the paediatric ward exhausted him and he was beginning to feel almost constantly woozy with the narcotics he now had to take for the pain that he resigned and went home from work for the last time – home to House's apartment. For some reason he had insisted that him staying with House instead of House staying with him made him feel better.

Knowing the day of resignation was coming closer by the minute, they had spent Wilson's last few weeks in work preparing the apartment for its new task, brought in an infusion pump for painkillers and the oxygen and monitoring equipment that was bound to become necessary as the tumour took more and more expansion space from Wilson's lungs, and anything else they might need to have a reasonably ok time of it. They'd also made a roster for the squad of oncology nurses who had volunteered to make their old boss's last few weeks that bit more comfortable, so they'd always have one on call should the need arise and had made it clear to any potential visitors that they were welcome to call in, but only under the proviso that they brought their own food and chipped in with the housework. They had, in short, got ready for the long – but still too short – good-bye.

They had settled into their new life surprisingly quickly, and were, for the moment, still enjoying it. House made breakfast every morning, they ran whichever errands were necessary together – Wilson in a wheelchair more and more often – and if Wilson still had the strength at the end of the day, he made one of his scrumptious dinners, or otherwise they just had whatever House felt like cooking or ordered in, and fell asleep in front of the TV. Today, the grocery shopping had exhausted Wilson, probably less the physical aspect of it than the encounter with an extremely creepy lady of late middle age who had insisted that following some Catholic ritual or other would heal him – drive the evil virus from his body actually, because as everybody knew cancer only ever hit obviously straight guys, while obviously gay guys only ever got AIDS – and so he had gone straight back to bed when they had got back and stayed in the company of one of the nurses while House had gone to sign on at the probation office. In a rate fit of basic human decency they had agreed to let him serve the remainder of his sentence after Wilson's death, but he still had to turn up there and play nice twice a week.

When he got back, the nurse's car was gone and as soon as he got into the door something tiny ran towards him and hugged him somewhere slightly above his knees. "HOUSE!" The little specimen of Homo Sapiens squealed in delight. "I missed you!" Before quite realising what her presence implied, House had scooped Rachel up and lifted her to his face, smiling. "Hi Scallywag, how are you?" She immediately became serious. "I'm sad that Wilson's dying. Are you sad, too?" "Yeah…" "I think it must be worse for you than for me, cos I'm only losing a friend, but you're losing your husband." One tear escaped, he just couldn't help it. Rachel got a not quite clean Kleenex from her skirt pocket and rubbed it away. "You won't get lonely, though, I'll take care of you." "Are you sure? I'm quite a handful, y'know." "Duh! I know! I'm still gonna take care of you. You only did that stupid thing driving into our living room cos you were sad and lonely. If you've got someone to take care of you, you're not gonna be sad and lonely and so you won't do stupid things like that anymore." If only it had been that simple. Rachel's logic was, by four-year-old standards, impeccable, but unfortunately the way his mind worked was rather more complicated and messed up than even an advanced and compassionate four-year-old could understand. He sighed. "Unfortunately my ability to do stupid things is pretty much unlimited, Rach…" Not to mention that when he had done that particular incredibly stupid thing, Wilson actually had been there to take care of him. "Well I shall be damned if I'm not gonna try!" House found himself treated to one of the top five steeliest looks he had ever recived in his life, and it was twice as disconcerting coming from a pre-schooler. "Right… I guess…" He carried Rachel to the bedroom, where Wilson, periodically resorting to extra oxygen, because the late August humidity was pressing on his chest like lead, was in quiet conversation with her mom.

There was a slight air of awkwardness when he came in. Wilson and Cuddy had stopped talking and she was now looking towards him. "Hey, Cuddy…" he finally broke the silence. She had put on weight, only a pound or two, making her look no less attractive – though House suddenly realised there was just nothing of that there anymore with him – but slightly warmer, more kindly and maternal. "Hey, House…" She got up and came towards him with a sad little smile. "I wish we could have made up under better circumstances." She held her arms open for him and the 300 pound gorilla by the name of death in the room made anything else impossible but to set Rachel down and surrender to a long, close hug. "What brings you here?" He finally managed to ask. "I'm at Perelman now. News don't take forever to travel from Princeton to Philly." "Obviously not… Still, you could have stayed at home safe and sound away from the bastard who drove his car through your wall." "I called Wilson to… just be there I guess and he suggested I come over." "I don't like the idea of dying before you guys have made up", Wilson called over. "You'll need Rachel in your life." Cuddy cocked an eyebrow. "So where do I come into it? As Rachel access facilitator?" "Ok, bad way of putting it. Up to a very short time ago, there always were three of us, and we usually were there for each other. I figure the two of you could still be there for each other after I'm gone." "But I'll take care of House", a little voice piped up from way down there close to the ground. "I promised him I would!" Wilson smiled. "Yeah, you will, and now I need you to come over here so I can teach you how to. House and your mom can make coffee in the mean time and cut up that lovely pecan pie you brought."

After Cuddy and Rachel had left, House felt the need to confront Wilson about something. "So you're basically training up a four-year-old to take care of me!" "Not A four-year-old, this particular four-year-old." "And that of course makes all the difference." "Yes, it actually does. Rachel is not some random four-year-old I picked up from the day care up the road." "No, she's the four-year-old daughter of a woman who took out a restraining order against me…" "She had that lifted on Monday." "…and would grow fangs and claws in my presence if it wasn't for you dying." "But seeing as I AM dying, the situation as changed and we might as well make the best of it. She'll be a friend to you like she used to be before you two were stupid enough to become romantically involved." "Yeah right, until she suddenly decides that I AM still the bastard who drove into her living room and the arrangement is cancelled." "It's not gonna happen, Rachel will make sure of that. She missed you like hell and I'm pretty sure she'd rather go on hunger strike than allow her mom to take you out of her life again." "Which brings us back to our original topic. For fuck's sake, Wilson, she's four!" "She makes you smile. Everything else you get from me you can get from other people, too, but when you were carrying her into the bedroom your eyes were shining, and there's no one else who can do that for you." "You can…" Another tear escaped. "But I won't be around, and for all we know, if I don't get lucky and the cancer does spread to my brain, I might not even be able to fulfil that function for you much longer while I'm still alive." "At this stage I don't think there's much of a chance of that. The pleural invasion is so extensive by now that it'll probably suffocate you before any liver and brain metastases can make your life a real misery." "That's basically what I'm hoping for." "Gives a whole new meaning to words like "lucky" and "hope", that terminal cancer stuff, doesn't it?" This time neither of them was able to hold back, and not being able to hold on tight to each other because it impaired Wilson's breathing didn't make thing any easier.

Wilson did get lucky. One night, House was woken by a gasping sound and immediately reached for the oxygen tank to increase the flow, but Wilson shook his head and managed to lift the mask from his face with his last remaining strength. "Time to go…" he gasped, and seconds later his breathing had stopped. House hugged him tightly, listening to his heart slowing down and finally stopping. Whatever this dying brain could still feel, he didn't want to it to be fear. Finally, after nearly ten minutes, he let go. Mechanically he closed the body's eyes, tidied up the most immediate mess, prepared everything for the death certificate, then sent a group text to all the people they had decided should know. Medical terminology made it easier to cope with. "Cause of death: Suffocation brought on by pleural invasion of stage IVA thymoma. Time of death: 10/16/2012, 02:38h." And one slightly less medical piece of reassurance. "It was quick, and he wasn't it pain." At least he hoped he hadn't been. Wilson had self-administered for the last few weeks of his life and had hopefully been sensible enough to exploit the pump for all it had to offer. House was ultimately glad it hadn't come to the last mercy dose, but both had been perfectly ready to administer it.

Finally he called the funeral parlour and got everything ready for the removal of the body. He got the plastic bag with the jeans, deck shoes and McGill hoodie they had prepared because Wilson had decided he would rather his body would look comfortable and relaxed than under the strain of work, and had a another go through the file with the funeral planning. The music – House had picked most of that out, because Wilson had insisted it would have to comfort the bereaved and not the corpse – the list of who would be invited, who would be pallbearers and who would give eulogies, even the meal afterwards, and finally a bullet point list of biographical facts with a nice picture that he'd be able to send to the medical journals and local papers that would undoubtedly want to run obituaries. Should they want more details, it said at the bottom, they could call Cuddy who had volunteered for that onerous task, being, in fairness, a great friend in doing so.

The hospital chapel was full up for the funeral, with even the standing room by the door taken, and House found it difficult to weave through all the people to his place in the front row where he was expected to be as the chief mourner. Wilson's family were already there, including Danny who seemed doped up but lucid enough to understand what was happening, his mom with Thomas, her new husband, who had both been pillars of support during Wilson's last few weeks, their closest colleagues including Foreman who was going to give a eulogy, but… House sat down, feeling even lower and more hollow than he had five minutes ago. Blythe squeezed his hand wordlessly and he noticed she was crying. He himself didn't even have the resources left for tears. Where the hell were Cuddy and Rachel? Had the whole renewal of friendship been a pretence after all? His gaze fell on the open coffin. The mortician had done a good job, stitching the hoodie together around the sides so it looked as if its XL cut still fitted a body that had shrunk to almost S.

Suddenly he felt someone little sliding into the bench next to him and taking his left hand between her two, because it was much too big to fit just one. He looked down at Rachel. "Thanks for coming, Scallywag." "I promised, didn't I?" She was the most solemn four-year-old he had ever seen, an old soul. House momentarily found himself wondering if being left for dead as a newborn had had some sort of impact on her subconscious. Cuddy, obviously on the verge of tears, reached over and gave him a short squeeze on the shoulder. "There was a pile up near Woodbourne. Sorry we took so long." "Just as long as you're here." And he meant it; he was too low even for sarcasm.

He got used to life without Wilson eventually, after spending weeks seeing him everywhere, months utterly unable to cope whenever he was mentioned, and years… No, he knew he would never get over it. But eventually he found his place among the living again, and in no small part thanks to the friendship of a tiny little girl who was really, measured in pure calendar years, much too young to deal with any of that yet. Wilson had been right – he could go bowling, talk theoretical physics, have lunch, whatever else he enjoyed, with just about anyone. He could even have sex and something bordering a relationship with just about anyone, but only Rachel's presence made his eyes shine.


End file.
